Eru no Kabe
by hamaell
Summary: After killing L, Light begins to confine in his now dead nemesis through a series of letters written on the wall in his old room. As time pass, he begins to suffer the consequences of his actions. REWRITTEN, most typos now corrected.
1. Eru no Kabe

**Author's Note: **

I was listening to my iPod when one of the songs from the Death Note soundtrack came up on shuffle, and suddenly I got the urge to write this. Funny how things happen, isn't it? There really isn't that much of a plot here, since it wasn't planned or anything.

For those who have read this before: there is nothing new. I just wanted to get rid off all the mistakes I made and didn't correct before I posted it. It's been driving me mental for ages.

**EVERYTHING IS UN-BETA'D**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**L****の壁**

**L's Wall**

As the sun rise in the early hours of the new day, most people will probably assume that this day will turn out just like yesterday, and just like the day before that. But one certain young man knows for a fact that this is not the case. He hasn't slept at all during the night, simply to make sure that he doesn't miss a single minute of it.

He wants to relish in this day. Indulge in it.

It's the 11th of May. The year is 2004. Just mere hours ago, this angelic prodigy caused the death of the single most prosperous detective ever to have stepped foot on planet earth. He wished for the man to be dead – and, suddenly, dead he was. Just like this day is not an ordinary day, the young man sitting with his back against a king-sized bed with black silken sheets, impishly grinning into the morning sun, is no ordinary young man.

He is a God.

His divine powers vanquish anything humanity has ever encountered before. It's almost a shame that no one will ever have the opportunity to admire him in all his glory; all they will ever see is the result of his judgement. Because, of course, his relatively newfound streak of deity is a secret. The small assemble of officers remaining in the awkward silence still present in the main investigation room in the large building does not have the slightest inkling of what he is capable of, and they have no intentions of interrupting him in his current reverie as they are under the impression that he is grieving the loss of an important friend. And he is - but maybe the only thing he really finds upsetting is the lack of opposition he was presented with, and the inevitable walk-in-the-park that now awaits him.

Yes, it was almost a disappointment, his death. It was meant to be something fantastic, something extraordinary; something that he could use to prove his superiority and his inhuman abilities. But it wasn't. Not at all. Death came wrapped in a box with a sparkling bow, a present that begged to be ripped apart. It was almost over before it ever began. But at least he has the build-up to the anti-climax to remember him by.

He stands up slowly, flexing his shoulders and cracking his fingers; the devious smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. A landscape of porcelain cups, all half full, with lukewarm coffee spreads out across the floor - a reminder of his sleepless night. He stretch, and then falls gracefully on top of the dark covers. Inhaling softly, he breathes in the scent of the dead enigma. He starts to chuckle. It's rather amusing how everything smells of him, reminds him of him, even though he is no longer there. The youth can't even recall him ever sleeping in this bed, let alone lying in it long enough for his scent to rub off and stay. But still, somehow, it's there and he is breathing it in despite knowing that he probably shouldn't.

It's probably just the smell of fresh air and blooming flowers, he tells himself. The window was left open during the night after all.

Turning his face to the side, he allows his cheek to carefully caress the soft sheets. He imagines that it is his pride that he feels, and that he is heightening his humiliation by adoringly expressing these gestures of faux affection. Surely it would drive him mad if he was still around; he was never one to tolerate any kind of mocking. His gaze - almond eyes with a discerning glint, half-lidded in satisfaction - focuses on the white, empty wall on the other side of the room. It's so naked. So pale. Almost like his skin. A sudden desire to demolish the perfected complexion grabs him by the collar of his shirt and drags him up from the bed. Eyes glittering, he grabs a pen from his pocket and gently places the tip on the wallpaper.

His fingers tremble ever-so-slightly with excitement, as the words he dares not to speak out loud forms on the vertical surface.


	2. Kitai

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**期待**

**Anticipation**

The tip of his pen is digging a small hole into the white wallpaper. He is still not very used to the whole idea, even though he's been going at it for a while now.

_Well, this is slightly awkward, isn't it, Ryuzaki?_

Writing letters was never his priority before. Especially not letters like this, not personal ones. He doesn't do personal. Well, he does now, but not before. That's why it takes him some time. But he's getting better at it, and if he concentrates it's almost like he is speaking the words to him rather than writing them in ink on a wall.

_I bet your dying to tell me what you think about what I've told you so far. Oh, pardon me - you're already dead. Pity. Though, I have to say, I rather like this outcome._

There is something majorly thrilling in knowing that he is no longer there to stop him. Although he might never be able to drop the act completely, now that he is gone he doesn't have to try so hard. He can relax, if only just a little. Finally he can focus on the task at hand rather than covering everything up.

_But honestly; for a while, I almost though you were going to win. For a while, I almost thought I was going to be the one to end up dead._

And he did. At times, he even doubted his own abilities - something he had never done before. There was something about his dark gaze that was penetrating and appeared to see through everything he did. The emptiness of his eyes would observe and analyse his every move, his every word. It was unnerving, annoying. It had caused him a great amount of stress at times, but it had sharpened his senses and brought his acting skills to its peak.

Yes, he had perfected the art of acting.

_Time seems_ _to pass so quickly these days, Ryuzaki. Soon I'll have to stop pretending to grieve your death, get out of this room and face the world. But I'm prepared. I'm ready for it._

Joy is his now, he can feel it travelling through his bloodstream and shooting fireworks in his fingertips. The world is ugly, but he's going to change it. Under his watchful eye, planet Earth will twist itself inside-out and back again, until it looks exactly like he wants it to.

_I can't wait to show you my new world. I am God, and I'll tell you everything. I want you to share my excitement._

_Eventually, it'll all be perfect._


	3. Taikutsu

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**退屈**

**Boredom**

He's tapping his fingers impatiently while he glares at the wall. He has come quite far with his words; almost half of the wall is covered by them now. He writes on it as often as he can, several times a day. There is simply nothing else to do.

_Ryuzaki,_

Leaning his head against the cool surface, he breathes in and out of his nose for a moment or two. It's like he's admitting some kind of humiliating defeat, even though he was the one who came out of their deadly battle victoriously.

_I'm bored._

By confessing this, it's like _he_ has won. Since he died, he has discovered that without their verbal battles and constant mind games, there is nothing to do. He feels as if he's caged inside the building with a selection of imbeciles, whose simple minds can't even begin to fathom the complexity of his. He is on his own.

But although he is more than comfortable being on his own most of the time, the restlessness is beginning to bother him now – and his constant movement is a sign of it. Tapping his fingers, moving his legs, cracking his neck; it's always something. The only time he's really still is when he falls into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, after having tossed and turned for what feels like an eternity.

_They just don't appreciate me, you know? They don't realise what I can do. Not like you did._

A smile finds its way to his lips and pulls the corners of his moth upwards.

_You knew all along._

Laughing loudly now, the confession flows freely. Everyone he's ever killed, he's got their names memorized as well as their faces and he lists them on the wall, writing their names for the last time.

_I did it. I did it, I did it, I did it. And you couldn't prove it. Oh Ryuzaki, how it must have tormented you._

But when he's finished writing; the delirious high that found him leaves him just as quickly as it came. Once again, he stands with the tip of the pen digging a hole in the wallpaper, while he ponders on what to say next.

Suddenly, all the words are gone as well.

He sits down and looks at the wall, read all the letters all over again. Not because he wants to know what they say, he knows that very well already, but because he needs something to do. Anything, just something. Face falling into an angry pout, he throws the pen away. It hits the wall with such force that it bounces back and lands a few feet away from him. He was always good at throwing things away.

He signs and stands up, walks over to the chucked pen and picks it up. Turning to the white wallpaper, he furrows his brow and leaves a final note.

_You know what? I don't need you. At all. The nothingness will fade, I know it will. Sooner or later I'll wish I had more waking hours instead of fewer. Just wait and see, Ryuzaki. Just wait and see._

With that, he puts the pen back in his pocket and turns away from the wall. Without looking back, he walks across the room and allows himself to fall gracelessly face-down on the bed. The collision with the soft sheets makes him lose his breath for a fraction of a second, but he regains it and turns around so that he's facing the ceiling. Staring wordlessly into thin air, he waits for sleep to find him and pull him under.


	4. Kodoku

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**孤独**

**Solitude**

The rain is splashing quietly against the glass in the window. The darkened sky seems empathetic to his mood and appears to be adjusting itself according to it. It's called sympathetic background, he remembers. When the weather reflects the mood of the protagonist to emphasise specific feelings or thoughts, to increase the impact.

_Ryuzaki, it's been so quiet lately._

Somehow, he is suddenly craving the company he would shy away from before. He is eager to talk constantly to the people around him, but the shallow conversations are pointless and only give him temporary satisfaction. He needs something deeper, something more intelligent.

He needs a challenge.

The walls surrounding him provide protection in a painful sort of way. While they keep him away from curious eyes, they also keep him imprisoned. It's like he's being interrogated all over again every time he close the door behind him and pick up the pen.

_I think I miss you._

Maybe it's not him he misses, he tells himself. Maybe it's just his mind and his brilliance. His ability to see through every act. Enemies or not; only _he _could drive him to the edge of insanity, over it and all the way back again, and still remain emotionless. The quirk of an eyebrow or the gentle chewing on a thumb was the only thing that convinced him that he wasn't as detached as he would first appear.

_But I'm not sure. I'm never sure with you and I never was. Is that the reason for me writing all this? God Ryuzaki, you just had to mess me up, didn't you?_

When he is feeling especially solemn, he will place all the blame on him. It's easier that way. He doesn't know what he's blaming him for, but it's something he just has to do. It's a habit of his now. He will sit on the floor, lie on the bed, or simply stand in the middle of the room and just scream. But no matter how loud his voice or how crude his language, the feelings never really fades. The loneliness and the anger stick to him like it has been tattooed on his skin.

_I know you said that murderers will always end up alone, and I know now that it's true. There is a difference, though – I'm not your everyday murderer._

Somewhere in between his words he can sense the presence of an unspoken truth. He shakes his head in an attempt to make it go away, but for some reason it keeps bothering him. It's like someone is standing behind him, exhaling against his neck and urging him to write it down.

So he purses his lips and sets his jaw in stubborn denial.

_I chose this._

He stares out the window again, following the path of a single raindrop as it crawls slowly towards the lower corner of the clear glass. Tokyo is buzzing, he can hear it from where he stands, but the bottomless abyss that disconnects him from the pulsing city has never been more daunting.


	5. Fuan

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**不安**

**Anxiety**

_Ryuzaki, I don't know who I am anymore._

His hand is shaking; his whole frame is quivering. This feeling is just as unknown as it is unbearable, and the young God only wishes for it to end - and end soon. End _now_. He is not used to losing his carefully applied composure like this, not even in his own consciously chosen isolation. His breathing is shallow, his eyes are darting nervously back and forth in search for the shadows he can just only see the outline of in the corner of his vision. He's a wreck, and his previous self-confidence has gone mysteriously missing.

In the hand that isn't writing there is a cup of coffee, filled to the rim with hot tea. The shaking of his hand makes the scolding liquid splash over the edges, resulting in red burn marks all over his fingers and over the back of his hand. Pennyroyal tea. It used to be _his _favorite, and the young man with clothes hanging loosely from his thinning frame clearly recalls how he used to say that there was something about its distinctive taste that was soothing and calming. And since calm is what he needs, and needs desperately, he is willing to give it a chance.

_Nothing seems real; everything is a blur. Logic has failed me. I used to think that you and everything you were was so incomprehensible but now, somehow, the finer details of your existence that I could never quite grasp before suddenly seem to be within my reach._

_There is so much about you that I never knew._

If he was to run in to an old friend (however unlikely the scenario might be, since he never leaves the building these days), chances are said friend would not recognize him at all. He looks so different. His hair is long and sickly disheveled; his eyes are tired in the way that suggests an anguished soul on the brink of a nervous break-down. His shoulders are slumping, his movements awkward and careful. As if everything around him has the ability to break every bone he has.

He is constantly afraid. But of what, he doesn't know. The fear and his stress levels have travelled through the roof, it's paralyzing and it keeps him up all night and all day, never gives him a chance to rest or recover. And he does understand his former nemesis much better, he know he does. Or he understands his behavior, at least.

He recognizes the way his back seem to hunch over and almost snap in half by the heavy weight of justice crushing down on his shoulders; he realizes the desperate craving for sugar to help rid his mouth of that awful, bitter taste that conscience stubbornly leaves on his tongue; and he can now fully sympathize with the inability to sleep, due to the constant dwelling on scenarios and outcomes that differs so greatly that they couldn't possibly originate from the same problem.

_But I never thought it would be so hard. Why is it so hard?_

There are so many questions to which the answers will be forever lost. The only person he knows who can give him the guidance he seeks is dead, and on his behalf as well. How ironic.

_Ryuzaki, I don't make any sense. I wish you were here, but at the same time, I want you to never come back. To never have been here in the first place._

_Just leave me alone. Please? Leave me, don't ever leave me._

The words are all mashed together now; the tears obscure his vision as they burns his eyes and gush down his face. With a wailing screech he drops the pen, drops the cup of tea. The thin porcelain shatters into a hundred pieces on the cold floor – mirroring the way his soul appears to be falling apart, the sharp edges of the fragments of his being cutting him open even more as they sail through the air. He sits down with his back leaning heavily against the wall, burying his face in between his knees and he grabs his hair with both of his hands in desperation. Gently rocking back and forth, he sobs and he shakes his head and the tears just never stop.

Suddenly, the air has no oxygen left for him. There is a painful knot in the middle of his chest that ceases his hyperventilation and he realizes after a few seconds of bewildered confusion that he can't breathe. Hurriedly he stands up, and falls straight back down as the head rush almost causes him to faint. He tries again and manages to remain standing this time, before carefully exiting the room as quickly as he can. He knows he needs to leave. It's too much. All of it; him, the tea, the air, the fear, the words – too much.

It's just too much.

"_The century's greatest detective, advertised as solving every case imaginable, how great must his burden be, how much pain must he go through at every single moment…past, present, and future._

_A burden so great it would leave you hunched over._

_A bitter taste in your mouth that would leave you longing for sweets._**"**

Death Note - Another Note: The Los Angeles BB Murder Cases.


	6. Himitsu

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**秘密**

**Secret**

_Ryuzaki, I -_

He stops for a moment, his pencil hovering awkwardly over the white wallpaper. This is his last letter, he is well aware of that. He has already expressed every other feeling he's ever had. All the words he wanted to say are elegantly scribbled in neat lines all over the walls. Blank ink on fragile paper, it's all too visible. He knows he has nothing more to say after this. He has nothing to say _but_ this.

_I have a secret. _

And what a magnificent secret it is. After all, he himself only recently found out. It's strange how you can desperately deny something, that something can be so painfully obvious that your mind simply decides to block it out; leaving you happily oblivious to whatever it is that your brain won't let you know, because it's much safer deluding yourself than to actually know the truth. The funny thing about secrets, he muses sadly, is that he has so many of them. They don't really mean anything to him anymore. They used to be his most reliable ally, but now… Now, they're just useless. He is tired of having secrets. He is tired of always hiding something. But most of all, he is so very, very tired of not having someone around to figure them out. Because that's why you have secrets in the first place, isn't it? Because you want someone to figure them out, and give you one of theirs in return?

_And I should have told you this before._

He probably always knew. From the first time he heard his voice, however obscured it was when it crackled through the computer speakers; the first time he saw him in the exam hall; when they sat next to each other on the opening day of the university. And after all the time they spent together, it should have been obvious. The tennis match, the chain, the arguments, and the physical and mental abuse they put each other through. Perhaps they had taken whatever opportunity they had to rid themselves of it all. Showing affection had never been the priority for neither him nor the insomniac whose monotone voice has been echoing constantly in his ears ever since the day of his death, and in all honesty neither of them knew how to express the inner turmoil that pulled them closer at the same time that it pulled them apart. The big difference between them, he knows now, is what made them so great.

He doesn't know if he ever felt the same. He was always so impossible to read. But for some reason, he has come to the conclusion that he did. The reason nothing was ever said about it was that there simply was no need. The understanding was mutual, as well as the inevitable outcome of everything they went though.

_I love you._


	7. Tokei no Hari no Oto

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Death Note or it's soundtrack.

**時計の針の音**

**The Clock Hand's Ring**

As the sun rise in the early hours of the new day, most people will probably assume that this day will turn out just like yesterday, and just like the day before that. However, it will not. There is a clock hanging on a wall, ticking innocently as the world is turned upside-down once again without even being aware of it.

Try to imagine the shock of a father as a walks through the floors on an enormous building, only to accidentally stumble upon a room of which existence he was not aware until now. Imagine the ashen horror on his face as his eyes falls upon the confessions in ink scribbled on the pale wallpaper, explaining everything that was supposed to remain a secret so thoroughly that it will make his vision tear up in disbelief when he realizes the truth about his eldest offspring. And imagine the grief of a mother when she understands that she has now lost both of her children due to circumstances that was always outside the range of her control.

This is not an ordinary day. At least not for them.

Truth be told, the world was never quite prepared for a prodigy like them. His power and the brilliance of his mind were simply too much for the planet to bear. If there ever was a time when the loss of such an intelligent youth could be the cause of both joy and sorrow, this would be it. He was not meant for this world.

Just like this day is not an ordinary day, the young man whose life was so dramatically spun out of control, was not actually out of control himself. He knew exactly what he was doing despite evidence saying otherwise.

On the other side of death, with hands so soft they could sooth his every ache, solve his every problem, he will be there, waiting for him. Loving whispers will travel soundlessly when they unite one last time and those who knew them will never have the opportunity to witness their union, to witness how two souls can fit together so flawlessly. Their jagged edges will melt together in an instant and what was once two broken pieces will become a whole. Just like everything else about them, it is inevitable.

The clock on the wall will continue to count down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, even though he who put it there has ceased to exist. The world will continue to spin despite the ugly truth about what has happened. And however cruel it might sound, perhaps what came to him was what he needed most of all. When he exhales for the last time, deep, dark eyes and the familiar monotone voice (which isn't monotone at all if you listen carefully – like he does) will welcome him with a content sigh.

Because home can only be where he is.

**Author's Note: **So, that's it, I guess. I'm sorry for any spelling mistakes or grammatical errors – it appears as if my spell-check suddenly decided to abandon me an go on vacation. Or something...

Thanks for reading (:


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